


I Wanna Dance With Somebody

by mikeymagee



Category: Pose (TV)
Genre: Character Study, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15544491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeymagee/pseuds/mikeymagee
Summary: Ricky was a street wise kid. You can't waste time looking at the stars when you've got a hustle going on. And there was always another hustle to be had. But tonight, Ricky finds a reason to dream, and a reason to love.





	I Wanna Dance With Somebody

Ricky had never been one to lose himself in dreams. Life on the streets had a way of squeezing the fantasy out of life like pulp out of an orange. There were times when the only place he could find solace from reality was at the bottom of a bottle of 40’s, or at the end of a coke line. 

 

His father has always said--that is, before he kicked Ricky out of the house--that a Black man didn’t have the luxury of  softness. 

 

“In this world, a nigga can be hard or he can be dead. There ain’t no inbetween.” 

 

And as much as Ricky hated admitting it, his father was correct. The streets didn’t give a shit about whether you used a condom or not, or how you liked your breakfast served, or whether or not you could afford a coat for the cold nights. 

 

Naw, all that mattered was survival. And if Ricky had to mop, beat, and fuck his head to his next meal, then he’d do it. No questions asked. 

 

So, on the rare occasions Ricky’s stomach was full, and he could afford the luxury of a fantasy, he’d walk down to the rec center, the one in the rundown part of town, and watch the Balls. The Ballroom scene was, to Ricky at least, the ultimate fantasy. A kaleidoscopic  dream of long fabrics, lustful music, glistening bodies, and freedom from a world of intruding eyes. 

 

There was something magical about the dancers. Something ephemeral about the lipstick. Something regal about the fabric. And something Ricky ached to be a part of, but knew he never could. 

 

Tonight was special though. There was a new House on the horizon, The House of Evangelista. It was some upstart house that wanted to make a name for itself. Ricky never paid much attention to those kinds of things. He was just here for the atmosphere, maybe a drink or two, and a little night time company for after the show. He had no interest in Ballroom politics, or which girl stole which man from which House on which day. 

 

“And now,” Pray Tell said as he approached the mic, “Give it up,” his voice graveled in his throat, rolled through his vocal chords, and echoed across the floor like ripples in a sleeping pool. “For Damon Evangelista!” 

 

And Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” played.

 

“This little boy’s momma tells me it’s his favorite track,” Pray Tell crooned as the crowd parted, and the floor opened like a fresh bottle of malt liquor.

 

In a smokescreen of color, fabrice and music, a young man stepped out onto the floor. His head was shaved down to his scalp, and his face was as smooth as Michael Jackson’s latest track. His skin was a gentle brown, and his eyes shined like boulder opals in the moonlight. He danced onto the floor, with long legs, dizzying spins, elegant arms, and a charming smile. There was a softness to him, a gentle spirit that the world had not yet stolen. Ricky didn’t know Black men could be like that. But Damon--Damon Evangelista--moved with a grace that Ricky had only ever seen in his fantasies. A gentle gleam that even the stars could not rival. 

 

“Damon Evangelista,” Ricky whispered. “Wow.” 

 

And Ricky’s heart pulsed to the beat of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.”

 

_ I need a man to take my hand _

 

And Ricky wanted nothing more than to hold onto that gentleness. To wrap himself within that gleam and never let go. To dance in the moonlight with gentle hands, and strong legs. To taste the clouds on his tongue and feel the arms of a lover around his stomach.  _ I wanna dance… _

 

Ricky remembered the hushed whispers around his family’s dinner table. The sneaking out past midnight in the cold breath of New York. The fear in his heart as his father marched down the hallways, eyes cold, lips dry, and hands curled into weapons.

 

“Get out of my house, faggot.” 

 

And that was the last time he saw his family. The last time he smelled his father’s cologne. The last time he knew the safety of a home’s walls. But tonight, as Ricky watched this stranger dance, this young man who sparkled brighter than Disco lights, he felt that feeling return. A feeling of comfort and safety. 

 

_...I wanna dance... _

 

And perhaps, dreams were no longer a luxury. Perhaps love could be savored, and fear could be swept away like so many pieces of broken glass. And perhaps, for just this one moment in time Ricky could be...

 

“...with somebody who loves me.”  


End file.
